


a new and hazardous risk

by johnllauren



Series: and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates) [1]
Category: Clone High
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: A list of things Jack should probably feel guilty about: staring at Ponce the way he always does, thinking about Ponce when he’slike this,pulling his too-hard dick out of his chinos, taking it into his hands in the bathroom theyshare,the bathroom that has Ponce’s towel and shampoo and conditioner in it right next to his, touching himself while he thinks about Ponce, about how Ponce looks, how Ponce sounds, what Ponce says, what Ponce’s hands would feel like instead of his own.A list of things Jack actually feels guilty about: nothing.
Relationships: JFK/Ponce "Poncey" de León (Clone High)
Series: and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990909
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	a new and hazardous risk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcflym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcflym/gifts).



> happy actual valentines day! :^) i have no self control
> 
> title from jfk's acceptance of the democratic nomination at the 1960 DNC because i can't stop listening to jfk speeches. look if youre still here and still reading poncefk fic months after this ship was popular i feel like you'll also like jfk speeches. 
> 
> this is the first fic chronologically in this series (i'll update the series order as soon as this is up) and it explains how they start hooking up!! origin story revealed
> 
> cw for minor blood mention (jack bites his lip, it only takes up a few lines) and internalized homophobia

“What do you think?” 

Jack turns around to look at him properly. 

Ponce isn’t wearing anything _out of the ordinary_ considering the kinds of things he usually wears, so really there’s no reason for Jack’s heart rate to increase the way it does. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is too small for him - or maybe every t-shirt he’s worn before has been too _big,_ and this is just the way his torso is supposed to look in everything, something that Jack is very quickly realizing he isn’t opposed to. And he’s wearing _leather pants._ They’re just as tight as the shirt, probably, leaving nothing to the imagination, and Jack pointedly doesn’t let himself look at Ponce’s crotch. His signature leather jacket is strewn across his shoulders in a way that always looks so fucking nonchalant, and it is suddenly very very hot inside their dorm room. 

“I like it,” Jack manages, but the words sound clipped. 

“Yeah? You don’t think it’s too much?” Ponce asks, chewing on his bottom lip as he turns around, looking at Jack with uncertain eyes. 

Jack nods. “Yeah! I mean - no! It’s not too much!” 

“I don’t know, I feel like maybe it’s a little… you know. Out there.” 

Jack shakes his head. “It looks good on you. It, uh, suits you.” It’s around now that he realizes he’s got to be staring and directs his gaze at the wall behind Ponce. “Why? Are you going on a date or something?” 

Ponce laughs. “No, I’m not going on a date, Jack. I just wanted to give leather pants a try.” 

“I like them. I think it was good to give them a try.” Jack says, and only after he says it does he realize how fucking weird he’s sounding. 

“Okay,” Ponce says. “Okay, cool. Thanks.” 

“Anytime.”

Jack counts his fucking lucky stars that he’s sitting down, because there is definitely a situation happening in his pants and he’d die on the spot if Ponce found out. It’s embarrassing, the way he just _gets_ like this about Ponce, his best friend, his roommate, but he doesn’t know how to stop, doesn’t know if he _could_ stop. He tries to play out the conversation in his head to figure out how weird he sounded but isn’t even able to, thinking about the way Ponce is just a few feet away, wearing those fucking leather pants. 

He watches the clock until five minutes pass. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Jack says, standing. 

“...Okay?” Ponce responds, “Have fun?”

Jack’s cheeks are burning, and he tries to tell himself it’s just an innocent comment but part of him feels bad, feels guilty, feels like Ponce has to _know_. But Ponce can’t know - or at least, if he did he’d certainly say something, he’s the one who’s always advocating for people to say what they mean. So Jack shakes his head to clear his thoughts and leaves the room. 

A list of things Jack should probably feel guilty about: staring at Ponce the way he always does, thinking about Ponce when he’s _like this,_ pulling his too-hard dick out of his chinos, taking it into his hands in the bathroom they _share,_ the bathroom that has Ponce’s towel and shampoo and conditioner in it right next to his, touching himself while he thinks about Ponce, about how Ponce looks, how Ponce sounds, what Ponce says, what Ponce’s hands would feel like instead of his own.

A list of things Jack actually feels guilty about: nothing. 

He screws his eyes shut as he jerks himself off, but somehow that’s worse because all he can see is Ponce, what Ponce looked like in the room, what Ponce would look like _now,_ if he would reach forward and take Jack’s dick in his hand like it was nothing, like he wanted to be there. It’s the kind of thing that makes his stomach feel weird, not with arousal but something else, and he doesn’t want to unpack that right now. Jack opens his eyes, stares instead at the wall in front of him as he strokes his dick, tries not to think about Ponce. 

It works for a while, as he takes himself apart with one hand, the other gripping the sink to tether him to reality. It works as long as he leans into the sensation alone, focuses on how it feels to be stroked, doesn’t think about anything else. He feels his orgasm build in his stomach and goes faster, ready to get it over with so he can go back to acting normal. And then he’s coming, and thinking about Ponce again, or maybe he’s thinking about Ponce again and then he’s coming, but either way there’s come all over his hand and all he can think about is _Ponce_ and he’s biting on his lip to stifle a moan and then his lip is bleeding. 

He sucks on his lip to stop the bleeding as he cleans himself up with toilet paper, face still red and burning with shame at the fucking thought of going back into that room, looking at Ponce in that outfit, knowing what he just did. Jack looks at himself in the mirror and finds that even he can’t make eye contact with himself. 

_You’re John F. Kennedy,_ he tells himself, _and this is normal._

Except he _isn’t_ the real JFK, and he knows this _isn’t_ normal. 

Jack splashes his face with water, takes a deep breath, and leaves the bathroom. 

“That was quick,” Ponce says, not looking up from his desk. 

Jack laughs. “Yeah.” 

Ponce turns around to look at him, and Jack is so focused on trying to look _normal_ that he doesn’t register the way Ponce is looking at him, head tilted to the side, studying him. 

“Your hair is dry.” 

_Oh, fuck._

“No it’s not,” Jack lies through his teeth.

“You didn’t take a shower, Jack.” 

“Yes I did.” 

“You look exactly the same as you did when you left the room.” Ponce says, and he’s still _looking_ at Jack like he’s trying to crack some sort of code, and Jack wishes he could fucking disappear. 

“Yeah, I just put these clothes back on after I showered.” 

He pauses. “Jack, is your lip bleeding?”

Jack’s tongue swipes over his lip, and he tastes blood. “No.” 

Ponce shakes his head. “What the fuck has gotten into _you?_ ”

“Nothing.” 

Ponce blinks at him and finally concedes. “You know what, fine, I don’t care.” He turns back to his desk.

He’s been let off the hook, so Jack feels like he can breathe again, and ends up lying in his bed staring at his phone trying to _forget_ about all of this. 

Ponce, he notices, is still wearing those fucking pants. 

Enough minutes pass that Jack’s heart rate is normalizing again when Ponce spins around, staring at Jack with furrowed brows and an open mouth. “Jack,” he says, incredulous, like even he can’t believe what he’s saying, “were you in there masturbating because I put on these pants?” 

And Jack is a fucking deer in the headlights, just _looking_ at Ponce. His mouth opens almost on its own and he feels like he’s been caught, but more than that he feels cornered. 

There’s nothing else to say.

He nods.

Ponce just _looks_ at him right back, like he was so focused on getting those words out that he hadn’t even _considered_ Jack would give him an answer, let alone the answer he was looking for. There’s a pause, and both of them are staring at each other, and the room is so quiet that Jack finds himself wishing someone would just pull the fucking fire alarm to get him out of this situation. 

Ponce chooses his next words very carefully. 

“Because of. Me?” Ponce asks. “Like you… think about… me?” 

Ponce’s gaze is piercing, and Jack’s heart is beating so fast and so loud he can hear it, but Jack can’t look away for the life of him. 

“That’s kind of why I nodded,” Jack says finally, and the words sound weird coming out of his mouth but he doesn’t care. He feels like static, and his ears are ringing and his heart is pounding but Ponce is still _looking_ at him like that, in a way that Jack entirely doesn’t understand, and he thinks he’s going to go crazy. 

“Just this time or more than once?” Ponce asks, his gaze locked on Jack’s eyes the same way Jack’s gaze is locked on his.

“More,” Jack says. He doesn’t even think before he says it, just _says_ it, can’t even think of a lie or a story to cover himself. 

He’s breathing, probably, because he’s still alive, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he hasn’t breathed since he looked at Ponce in those _fucking_ pants, or maybe he hasn’t breathed since he looked at Ponce the first time he ever saw him, and he doesn’t know why he’s spent so long lying about this or why Ponce is somehow able to draw the words out of him when he hasn’t even allowed himself to think about this. 

Ponce is silent. Neither of them move. 

“Yeah?” Ponce asks, barely more than an exhale of breath. 

Jack’s mind finally lets him look away from Ponce’s eyes and at his lips, and then Jack is staring at Ponce’s lips and he’s pretty sure Ponce is doing the same thing and all he’s doing is _staring_ but so is Ponce. 

That’s when he comes back to his senses. 

“I have to go.” 

He stands on unsteady legs, not even looking at Ponce as he makes a beeline for the door and leaves the room and just _walks,_ trying to think about a destination instead of Ponce. 

He walks because he can’t think, and then he can think again but he keeps walking because he feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t stop. His thoughts clear, eventually, and finally it feels like he can look back on the situation with some degree of clarity, and then Jack remembers Ponce and jerking off and Ponce asking him about it and Jack _admitting it_ and suddenly wants very badly to get plastic surgery on his face and transfer schools or leave the country and never be seen again. 

This, he knows, is not logical. 

What is logical is the fact that he is JFK, and he is straight, and he has always been this way and that’s the truth, that’s always been the truth. Ponce is his best friend and his roommate and what just happened between them was _normal,_ because those pants were tight and Jack was stressed and jerking off is fine, it’s _normal,_ and it wasn’t weird because Jack is straight and it’s not going to change anything between them because they’ve really always just been guys being dudes and this is something they’re going to laugh about in five years when they sit on the beach with their wives. 

Jack returns to the room secure in the knowledge that he is normal. 

Ponce stands when he comes back, takes a few steps closer and Jack opens his mouth to launch into his speech about how he’s straight and normal and this is fine, but the words die in his throat because Ponce is so close to him that Jack can smell him, and all he can think about is Ponce again. 

“You’re all I ever think about.” Ponce says, his eyes searching Jack’s, and it takes Jack a few seconds to register what he means. 

“Oh,” Jack says, instead of anything eloquent. 

Ponce nods, like they’ve come to some kind of conclusion, and Jack just stands there. 

When Jack doesn’t move, and Ponce doesn’t move, and then both of them are quiet for so long that Jack starts to think of escape routes, Ponce speaks again. “Could you. Show me?” 

“What.” 

“Show me what you do when you think about me.” Ponce says. 

Okay. 

This is a new development. 

But if Ponce just wants Jack to _show_ him, that would mean Ponce wasn’t touching him. And as long as Ponce doesn’t touch him it’s not gay. And Ponce is looking at him like _that_ , and his voice is deep in a way Jack’s never heard it before and he’s be lying if he said it didn’t _kinda_ turn him on, and him and Ponce have done everything together since they were kids, so why should masturbating be any different?

“Okay,” Jack says, and his voice is wavering. His hands are shaking as he undoes his fly, but Ponce reaches forward to stop him. Jack stops before Ponce can touch him. 

“On the bed, Jack.” 

_Oh._

Jack has listened to Ponce plenty of times, and Ponce has said plenty of things to him, so Jack doesn’t know why this in particular drives him insane, but it does. Ponce’s voice is deeper than usual, firm, and Jack is obsessed with it, wants nothing more than to listen to him, for Ponce to tell him to do more things, to _do_ whatever it is Ponce wants. 

So he listens, sits on his bed, pulls down the zipper of his pants. 

“Take your pants off.” 

Jack swallows. 

Ponce’s voice is still deep, still commanding, but then his eyes change, and they’re searching Jack’s. “I mean - is this okay? Do you want this?” Ponce asks. 

Jack nods. “More than anything,” he says, and the words just come out of him like they did before, like Ponce makes it impossible for him to filter himself. 

“Okay,” Ponce says, sitting at the foot of Jack’s bed, only a few feet away from him. 

Jack pulls his pants down, and then he’s half-lying in his bed in just his sweater and his briefs and Ponce is right there, looking at him in a way he’s never looked at him before, and Jack doesn’t know why this is getting to him, why he’s so desperate for Ponce to give him another command, why he wants _Ponce_ to _touch him._

“Are you already hard?” Ponce asks, and Jack looks at his dick, and he is. 

He nods. 

“You haven’t even touched yourself yet.”

“I know.” 

“Touch yourself.” 

Jack pulls his underwear off and tosses them off the bed, trying very hard to regulate his breathing. He’s done this plenty of times before with plenty of girls but it’s never felt _like this,_ he’s never felt so exposed or open or intimate with someone and here he is, technically only half-naked in front of Ponce, but his dick is out and his dick is _hard_ and Ponce is _staring at his dick_ and Jack is _staring at Ponce_. 

He touches himself, his fingers shaking ever-so-slightly as they ghost over the head of his dick and then he’s gasping already, either from the feeling or just the situation, knowing Ponce is here and Ponce is _watching him._ Jack goes faster, touches himself the way he always does, the way he knows he likes it, like Ponce isn’t right there. 

“What do you think about?” Ponce asks him. 

“ _You,_ ” Jack exhales, starting to jerk himself off. 

“You and me or just me by myself?”

“Just you,” Jack says, because thinking about the two of them together would be too much, too gay, and Jack is straight. Of course he is. 

Ponce is just staring at him. “Cut that shit out, Jack, I know you have specific fantasies,” he says, just as Jack is moving his hand upwards, and Jack _moans_ , mouth open and everything, not caring about the noise or the fact that Ponce is watching him. 

“So you don’t think about me doing things to you?” Ponce asks, leaning just a little closer, still not even close to touching Jack, and suddenly all Jack wants is for Ponce to touch him. 

Jack shakes his head. It’s a lie, because he does think about it, he always has, but somehow that feels like too much to tell Ponce, especially right now, and he’s straight anyway so all of this would be confusing Ponce and himself far too much. 

“You don’t think about how it would feel if that was my hand?” 

And Ponce is nodding at Jack’s hand, the way it’s curled around his dick, the way he’s jerking himself off fast enough to get the friction he wants but still slow because he doesn’t want this to be _over,_ he wants Ponce to be doing this with him forever. Jack swallows, thinks about what it would be like if it _was_ Ponce’s hand, and moans again. 

“You don’t think about me taking you apart with my hands? Leaning over you, slow and gentle and drawn out until you’re begging for it?” 

Jack feels like he’s forgotten how to exist. “No,” he says, a lie, and his voice sounds breathy and high-pitched and it’s never sounded like that before but Jack doesn’t even think he minds, not if it means he gets to feel like this. 

“So you think about me being rough?” 

“ _Ponce,_ ” Jack moans it, moans his name like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hips are stuttering already and his hand starts moving faster, jerking himself off in earnest while Ponce just sits there. 

“That’s it, Jack.” Ponce says, “that’s it, baby.” 

_Baby._ Jack fucking whines, soft and desperate, and he looks up at Ponce to find Ponce looking at him, looking into his eyes like Jack is something precious, something to be treasured, and Jack wants to melt, wants to live in this moment forever, wants _Ponce’s hand on his dick more than he has ever wanted anything in his life._

“Do you want to think about us together?” Ponce asks.

“ _Yes,_ ” Jack says instantly, like he needs it. 

“You can, Jack.” 

Jack didn’t know he was looking for permission until he got it. Things are different now, now that Ponce told him he could think about this, he could think about Ponce’s hand on his dick or Ponce’s lips on his or anything he wants as long as it’s _Ponce_ and he doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore, not that he even felt guilty to begin with, or maybe he felt guilty about not feeling guilty, but that doesn’t matter because Ponce is here and Ponce wants this. 

Ponce’s attention seems divided between Jack’s eyes and his dick, but Jack’s eyes don’t leave Ponce’s face, watching it like he can catalogue everything, like he can memorize the way Ponce looks like this, hot and bothered just from _Jack touching himself._

Jack can feel himself getting close, can feel the orgasm building at the pit of his stomach and he _wants_ it, wants to chase it, wants to reach it, but at the same time part of him wants to stay here, where Ponce is watching him do this, like this moment is special and sacred and he doesn’t ever want to lose it. 

“What do you want, Jack?” Ponce asks, and only then does Jack realize he’s been saying Ponce’s name over and over, a litany. 

“You,” Jack says, and Ponce knows what he means.

“You want me to touch you?”

Jack nods, afraid to say the words out loud. 

Ponce touches him, wraps his hand around Jack’s dick almost reverently, like it’s what he was made for. Jack’s never had a guy’s hand on his dick so he hadn’t realized what he was missing, hadn’t realized how much he _needed_ this. Ponce’s hand is firm and steady but gentle as it holds him, as it pumps his dick, somehow too fast and too slow and just right and it’s overwhelming, and Jack doesn’t know how he’s ever lived without this. 

“C’mon, you’re my baby, I’ve got you,” Ponce says, his voice soft and gentle but still firm, jerking him off like it’s what he was made for, like it’s where he belongs.

Jack doesn’t last very long like that, with Ponce’s hand on his dick and Ponce’s eyes locked on his and Ponce everywhere, and then he’s coming, all over his sweater and Ponce’s hand and the fucking bedsheets but he doesn’t care because it’s the best he’s _ever_ felt when he’s come. 

“There we go,” Ponce says, _smiling,_ but his smile has always been infectious so Jack is smiling too, still looking at him like they haven’t just done this. 

Ponce takes his hand off of Jack’s dick, wipes it off on his sheets. Jack makes a face at him, and he shrugs. “Sheets were already dirty.” 

Jack sticks his tongue out, unable to form any kind of coherent argument. 

Ponce stands up off the bed, and Jack is used to this part, used to the way he’s just going to sit here by himself until he properly comes down, used to the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach - it’s not dread so much as acceptance, at this point. But then Ponce is walking back over to him, holding his tissue box, and he’s taking a tissue out and wiping Jack’s dick down so carefully, cleaning the come off of him, folding the tissue up before taking it over to the trash can and then doing the same thing again. He wipes down the sheets, and Jack will still have to wash them but at least they aren’t covered in come, and does the same with his sweater before taking it off of Jack for him, and Jack is powerless to do anything but fucking _smile_ at him. 

When the tissues are discarded, and Jack’s sweater is in his hamper, Ponce gets back on the bed, sitting cross-legged next to Jack. “C’mere, Jackie-boy,” he says, opening his arms, and Jack lets himself fall into them. 

He’s naked and Ponce isn’t, and he’s still coming down from an orgasm, and his thighs are shaky and the sheets are ruined but it doesn’t matter at all, doesn’t even worry him. All that matters is that his head is on Ponce’s shoulder and Ponce is holding him, arms wrapped around Jack like that’s what his arms are _supposed_ to be doing, and for the first time in his life Jack feels _warm_ after an orgasm, feels calm and happy and loved. 

“Was that okay?” Ponce asks, nervous, cautious, like he didn’t just give Jack the best orgasm of his life.

“That was perfect, Ponce-o.” Jack says, still smiling. 

They just sit there, and as time goes on Jack thinks about it, thinks about what they just did and how he isn’t gay, how he said as long as Ponce doesn’t touch him it’s not gay. But Ponce touched him. 

It wasn’t gay, Jack decides. He’d know if it was gay. Hell, it’s probably not gay unless Ponce fucks him properly, up the ass. 

“Y’know, Poncey, you’re my best friend.” 

“What?”

Jack looks at him and smiles. “I’m so glad we can do things like this and still be best friends.” 

“...Uh-huh,” Ponce says, sounding unsure of himself for the first time since Jack walked back into their room. 

“Y’know,” Jack says, like it’s obvious, “because we’re not gay. We’re best friends.” 

“Right.” 

“You’re a great friend.”

“Go to bed, Jack,” Ponce says, untangling himself from Jack and getting off his bed, straightening out his shirt as he stands up. 

Jack finds himself staring even now, watching as Ponce walks away, back to his own bed, and he wonders why he wants more than anything for Ponce to stay.


End file.
